Chapter Six

After receiving her “instructions” Havana quickly wiggled out of her flight uniform, tossed her holey nylons into the trash, and found a pair of jeans and her least-dirty t-shirt from the laundry pile. Now in her sensible running shoes which she hoped she wouldn’t have to use for their intended purpose, she was treading carefully and quietly down the sidewalk, becoming more and more dimly lit as she approached the next intersection.

When Havana reached West Harrison Street, she turned right and continued walking toward her destination. The address couldn’t be found on Mapquest, so she had to settle for the next nearest business: Monty’s Quik Stop and Checkcashers. Once the bright yellow sign came into view she stashed the printout in her purse. She was a little relieved to tell Frank that she had an emergency and couldn’t go out, but a lot more hesitant about instructing him to contact her sister if he didn’t hear back from Havana in over two hours. She knew she was letting herself into a trap, and of course contacting the police would put her father in jeopardy, but Frank was a friend of her father’s and would probably know what to do. And whoever possessed the voice on the other end of the phone would surely kill her father if she didn’t comply with his wishes.

She rang the bell but never crossed the threshold of number 1504, for a bag fell around her and plunged her into complete darkness, and the itchy canvas rubbed at her bare arms like sandpaper as she was scooped up and thrust into the back of a vehicle, a van from the sound of the slamming double doors. She wanted to break out of the cocoon but the bag had been tied to her and only her feet were exposed. If only they had eyes; she could note where she was being taken, though she guessed that the back of the van was windowless. To make matters worse, her sneakers were being pulled off.

“Hey!”

“Sorry, miss. Gotta do it.”

“Can you let me out of this bag? I can’t breathe.”

“Sorry, miss,” she heard a gruff but familiar voice say.

“Leonardo?” she said.

“Sorry, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

You’re full of shit, she wanted to tell him. She recognized one of her
father’s henchmen. But what was he doing on the other side? Her skin crawled from the itchiness of the bag, the bare feet that anyone could tickle, and she couldn’t do a thing about it. Why didn’t she bring Frank with her? Or send someone else. She should have thought this through, come up with a strategy. But now it was like she was in a plane with total hydraulic failure, in free fall.

The van swerved sharply and crossed over a bump as if it were entering a driveway, and the ignition was cut.

“Okay, get out, both of you.”

The rope was loosened and the bag lifted. So it was Leonardo, the traitor, suit too tight, sauce stains on his collar as usual. But there was also another man, ordinary in his thinning brown hair and medium build, but why did he look familiar?

It was the real Dr. Dave Sharlet, in blue scrubs, wet from the perspiration of captivity. He looked as if he had been plucked from the operating room.

“Dr. Sharlet?” Havana whispered.

“Yes indeed,” said Leonardo. “And he’ll be helping us in more ways than one.”